


If Love is Not Enough

by Bakingblues



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Canon, M/M, but canon with some magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakingblues/pseuds/Bakingblues
Summary: The truth was, Eric didn’t really use his magic for anythingWrite a story about Eric Dier being a witch! Said absolutely no one. So I wrote it anyway.





	If Love is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awkwardsorta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/gifts).



> This is for Ella - I love you. Enjoy all the injokes! 
> 
> Thank you Camden for being the kindest beta I could ask for, and teaching me how commas work.

**February 2016**

He only ever told Dele, because it was easy to tell Dele. 

“So, you’re a witch?”

“I don’t like the term witch, it’s a bit girly innit.”

“I dunno man,” Dele said, reclining back onto his bed, a half eaten florentine biscuit he’d made Eric stop to buy at the airport in his hand, “all the cool people are witches.”

“Oh yeah? Like who?”

“Sabrina.”

Eric laughed at that and threw a cushion at Dele. He was still nervous.

“So, you don’t care?” he asked, fiddling with the seam of the rumpled duvet cover. They had the window open, despite the air con, and Eric could hear the sounds of the traffic far below. 

“Course not mate, with you on this team imagine what we can achieve! Goals for days. We’ll win tomorrow now - easy, just swoosh a few balls to the back of the net,” Dele said laughing, mimicking waving a wand, a fond and familiar glint in his eye.

Eric shook his head, smiling, “no,” he said “not that. Never that.”

“Fine. At least pass me my ipad then,” Dele said, reaching for another biscuit, “I wanna catch up on Eastenders.” 

Eric lifted his hand and directed his palm to where the ipad had been left, on the cabinet across the room. He felt the familiar energy thrumming through his veins as he pushed the magic out. The ipad drifted gently through the air to Dele, who watched in fascinated wonder.

“Fuck me,” Dele said grinning and Eric smiled. 

~

It’s true what he’d told Dele - never that. He’d never influence a game.

He’d been eight when his Nanna had told him what it all meant. What the energy that ran through his blood meant, what he could do. They’d been walking back home along a path from the coast on the southern tip of Portugal, the late summer bathing the town with deep red, the iron coloured dust staining his trainers. 

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” she’d asked Eric kindly. Eric had nodded, it hadn’t be a surprise. “Do you have any questions?”

Eric had shook his head. 

“Let’s sit down,” his Nanna advised, and guided him to a wooden bench, bleached white by years of exposure to the salt air.

Eric sat next to her, kicking his legs against the ground, creating a cloud of dust. His Nanna pushed the dust away with a flick of her hand. “It comes from my mother,” his Nanna explained. “And it goes back for centuries. Your mother has it too, but she doesn’t like to use it.”

“Why?” Eric asked, surprised. He knew his sisters Daisy and Steffi were magic, they had been using it for years in secret in their room. Making flowers grow up between the cracks in their floorboards, turning Eric and Edward’s night light on and off to scare them. If he thought about it, Francesca probably had magic too, the way heat and firey energy radiated out of her uncontrollably when she was unhappy or scared, like when their parents had told them they were moving to Portugal. He wondered about Patrick.

“She decided to stop,” his Nanna said smiling.

“Oh.” Eric didn’t really know what to say to this. “Does everyone know?” 

“Your older sisters know. And when they’re old enough, I will talk to Edward, Francesca and Patrick so they understand.” 

Eric nodded. He was getting fidgety. 

“It’s your magic, and you can do with what you want. You’re a sensible boy and we trust you. But make sure you don’t use it to hurt.” His Nanna paused and looked out over the sea, stretching far into the horizon, “and make sure you don’t use it for things that you need to be real. Okay?”

Eric had said okay, and then asked if he could go back to the house to play football with his brothers. He hadn’t understood what his Nanna had meant, but it hadn’t bothered him then. All he cared about when he was eight was playing football with his brothers, and persuading the local baker to give him free _papo secos_.

It wasn’t until he was fourteen and playing for Sporting that he understood. He loved football and he loved Abel who played on the right wing. In the 84th minute of the final of the U14 Summer Tournament the Club had hosted, his magic poured out of him and he floated Abel’s free kick into the top corner of the net to secure them the win. His jubilation was hollow and tinged with guilt and as he watched Abel get into his mother’s car that evening without a backwards glance to Eric, Eric vowed that football would only ever be real and a boy being in love with him would be real too.

 

**March 2016**

Nothing really changed after he told Dele, except Dele would make Eric levitate sweet popcorn into his mouth as they lounged on Eric’s sofa or across beds in strange hotel rooms. 

“So do you like, make potions and stuff?” Dele asked on a wet, Wednesday afternoon in March. Training had been long and hard in preparation for the weekend’s North London derby, and Dele had, as habit dictated, followed Eric home and flopped on his sofa. Eric didn’t mind, he liked his house. It was large, but he filled it with books and photos and records, which made it feel cosy and lived in. He had a spare room which Dele crashed in more often than not, and he kept Dele’s favourite tea bags in his kitchen cupboard. Dele always teased him for making tea the ‘normal’ way. Eric liked Dele being in his house. 

Eric snorted. “Fucks sake, of course not.”

“Well you know. Thought maybe sometimes you’d like, dress up with a pointy hat and make, I dunno, a brew to make all the Arsenal lot grow boils.”

“Or make Chelsea come down with the shits.”

“Or make us win the Euros this summer.”

Eric chuckled and shook his head, turning his attention back to the re-run of Homes Under the Hammer. 

“Why are we watching this shit?” he asked, putting his empty tea cup of the floor next to the sofa and stretching his legs out over Dele’s thighs.

Dele looked at him curiously.

“Seriously though,” he asked, “what do you even use your magic for?”

Without taking his eyes off the TV Eric waved a palm in Dele’s direction and turned his hair bright pink.

~

The truth was, Eric didn’t really use his magic for anything. Sometimes he’d use it to lace up his trainers before a morning run, and often he’d use it to quickly heat up leftovers after a late game. But most of the time he didn’t think about it, the continual warm thrum of it running through his veins his only reminder.

 

**September 2016**

Dele didn’t often talk about his family, but Eric had met Harry a few times and he liked him a lot, understood his importance in Dele’s life. He’d asked once about Dele’s father, and Dele had shrugged. Eric didn’t push it. 

Dele instead liked listening to Eric talk about his siblings, their childhood in Portugal and their friendships now. They filled long bus journeys crisscrossing the country, traveling from game to game with Eric telling Dele about how Patrick would use his pocket money to buy crabs at the fish market so he could release them back to the sea, and how Francesca hated the sun and would magic her sunhat to abnormal sizes. About the evenings spent racing on their bikes through the streets of Lisbon to the beach, stealing rolls of mints and packets of cigarettes from the newsagents, fighting over the PlayStation, eating together crowded round the big wooden table in the kitchen with the radio always on. The unshakeable bond their blood and their magic gave them.

Eric asked Dele if he would like to come over for dinner; Daisy had graduated that summer with a degree in Art History, and they were having a big meal to celebrate.

“Mate, I’d love it,” Dele said, grinning. They were on the bus back from Stoke, the long journey south made enjoyable by their emphatic win and Dele’s goal. 

“Great,” Eric said, messaging his Mum back with Dele’s answer and pocketing his phone.

“They’re all like you, aren’t they?” Dele asked. Eric shushed him and looked around, but no one was paying them any attention.

“Sorry,” Dele said lowering his voice, but he didn’t change the topic. “Like, must be nice though, after a meal like that to just,” he made a swooshing motion with his hand, “poof and all the washing up is done.” 

“Actually Mum doesn’t use hers. So we just, we tend not to use ours in front of her either. So, sorry but you can’t get out of the drying up that easily,” Eric said. 

“Why not?” Dele asked, surprised. 

Eric shrugged. “After she met Dad, she just stopped. I guess she didn’t want to scare him away. Not that he cares, I don’t think.”

“Weird,” Dele said, looking at Eric closely, “I mean, that it would scare anyone away. I can’t imagine it scaring me away.” 

Eric shrugged again, and reached back into his pocket for his phone, pretending he’d received a message. Dele sat back in his chair next to him, deep in thought. 

~

The night of the meal Dele turned up at Eric’s with a box of peppermint creams from Marks and Spencer, a bottle of red wine and a bunch of carnations. Eric eyed them suspiciously.

Dele shrugged, “Sally always told me never turn up to a party empty handed.” 

“But this isn’t a party,” Eric said, pulling his jacket on and ushering Dele off his front steps and into the driveway where an uber was due. He slammed the door behind him. “This is just my family.” 

Dele shrugged, and looked uncharacteristically nervous. 

“But that’s really sweet,” Eric said, “Mum will be well done up.” 

“The carnations are for Daisy,” Dele said, and Eric smiled. 

Eric always forgot how loud his family were when they were all together. He could have beers with Edward and Francesa in the pub that overlooked the river, or pile on the sofa at Steffi’s with Patrick and their Dad to marathon The Godfather films, and it was always pleasant, the conversations manageable and calm. But the moment they were all together they became loud and childish, all competing for attention, all knowing the things to say to wind each other up. Even as adults, or maybe more so, they created mayhem. 

But they were also kind and welcoming, and Eric felt a twinge of pride as they enveloped Dele into their presence with ease and warmth. Dele chatted to Eric’s Dad about Tottenham’s Champions League chances that season, and he asked Daisy about her dissertation, listening attentively to her reply. At dinner Eric's Mum gave Dele three helpings of her lasagne and too much wine. Eric caught his eye as they sat around the large dining table and Dele smiled at him over the candles and empty wine glasses and the loud din of chatter. He looked drowsy and happy, and it made Eric happy. 

Later, as they stood on the curb waiting for the taxi to take them home, Eric asked if Dele had enjoyed himself.

“Yeah,” Dele said, “I did.”

“Good.”

“Your Mum likes me,” Dele said, happily.

“Everyone likes you,” Eric said, and opened the taxi door for him.

 

**April 2017**

Eric suggested Dele organise going out for a few drinks for his birthday, and most of the lads - even a couple of the family guys - were up for it. Eric didn’t invite Dele over to his to get ready, but Dele came anyway. 

“You’re such a fucker,” he said, as Eric opened the door.

“Happy birthday!” Eric said, laughing as Dele pushed past him, a scowl on his face. Eric had a fleeting worry Dele was genuinely upset. He thought back to the photo Dele had posted of him in January. He’d figured this was fair game. 

“Where did you even get the photo from?” Dele asked after Eric followed him into the front room. Dele shedded his jacket onto the sofa, dropped his wallet and keys on top of it and glared at Eric.

Eric shrugged. “That would be telling,” he said, taking a step towards Dele.

“Did you magic it?” Dele accused.

“No! What? No, that’s not how - I got it from Harry,” Eric replied, affronted and confused. 

Dele laughed and Eric relaxed.

“He’s a fucker too.” 

“You’re not really mad are you?” Eric asked.

“Nah, course not mate,” Dele replied, punching him on the arm as he walked past. “Get me a birthday beer and then help me get ready.” 

Eric lay on his bed, beer in one hand, magicking different outfits onto Dele, who laughed and laughed. 

“Now the denim jacket” he said, and Eric obliged with a push of his hand. “Wait, try with the red t-shirt, oh no, do the white Gucci shirt.”

Eric watched as Dele admired himself, occasionally catching his eye in the reflection of the mirror. Dele’s glee at his magic was infectious, and he wondered why he didn’t do this more often. 

They shared a taxi home that night, back to Eric’s. Dele, a sloppy drunk, lolled his head onto Eric’s shoulder, his hot breath hitting Eric’s neck.

“Good night, good night,” Dele mumbled to himself, “it was a good night. Good lads.” He looked up at Eric, and grinned. 

“I love that you’re a witch,” he muttered quietly, still grinning, “I love that.” He placed his hand on Eric’s stomach, drunkenly, pointlessly. “I love it.” 

And in his drunken haze Eric thought that no, that isn’t right. 

 

**May 2017**

They only fought about it once, at the end of the season, when a West Ham defeat left their hopes of a title fight in tatters. 

“Why couldn’t you have just fucking sent one of our shots in?” Dele asked Eric furiously, as they stood on Eric’s front porch, neither knowing if they were both going inside. 

“I told you, I don’t do that,” Eric replied quietly.

“Why not? What’s the actual point of you having this if you don’t use it for some good?”

“Because that’s not how it works. It isn’t fair.”

“Fuck that, it’s fucking West Ham, who gives a shit. We were so close Eric.” 

“It’s not my fault you weren’t good enough tonight Dele, don’t put this on me.”

With that Dele turned and walked back to his car, and Eric was left staring into the night. 

 

**August 2017**

“I like Lallana,” Dele said idly. They were at Dele’s, for a change, and were watching Match of the Day, sharing a heated up meal Dele’s nutritionist had left him and drinking bottled sparkling water. Dele’s house was practical - modern, minimal and white. He had a large TV, a multitude of games consoles, an elaborate music system and a cleaner who also kept the fridge stocked. Eric had tried to encourage Dele to personalise his house, and had casually been dropping off books on each visit and got his sister to order some cushions, which made Dele laugh, but he didn’t put them away. One damp, July afternoon the year before, when they had still been reeling from Iceland’s humiliation, Eric had taken Dele to a Rothko exhibition at the Tate Britain. There he had bought Dele a framed print of Orange and Yellow, which was still leaning against the wall in Dele’s large front room. 

Eric grunted at the apparent non-sequitur. On the screen Salah scored Liverpool’s third. It was always satisfying watching Arsenal get demolished. 

“I know we’re the ones with the _bromance_ ,” Dele continued, drawing out the word, almost sarcastically. Eric stiffened slightly - they didn’t talk about this. There were the interviews, the Instagram posts, the constant, constant questions. But on their own, they didn’t talk about this. He let Dele carry on. “And like, you know.” He nudged Eric in the side, leering at him.

Eric snorted. “You wish.” 

Dele grinned at Eric and carried on. “But, like, if I married Adam Lallana right, and double barrelled my name, I’d be Dele Alli-Lallana.” 

Eric laughed, and Dele leant back into the sofa, his shoulder flush against Eric’s side, grinning, pleased with himself. 

That night, back at his, Eric ran the conversation over again in his head, an uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant feeling running through him. He clenched his fists together, and swallowed down the feelings fighting their way to the top of his lungs. 

 

**November 2017**

It had always been easy with Dele; easy to slap his hands as he was subbed off for him on Dele’s debut, easy to find Dele in midfield, reading Eric’s pass with understanding, easy to watch Dele make a run, creating space, creating chances. 

Easy to train with Dele, to play with Dele, to celebrate with Dele, to go home with Dele. Easy to tell Dele he could do magic, to post photos of him and Dele on Instagram, to spend hours being teased by Dele. 

Easy to watch Dele score twice against Real Madrid; easy easy easy.

That night, as usual, they made the short drive back to Eric’s. Dele was jubilant, going over his goals in detail again and again. 

“Yeah, but what about that miss mate,” Eric said grinning, looking past Dele as he flicked on his indicator, “absolute howler.” 

“Fuck you,” Dele said, but there was no real venom. “You’re going home with the Man of the Match.” 

Eric grinned again, and pulled into his drive. “I am,” he laughed. 

On the walk to the house, Dele took his hand. This was new. This was easy too. They dumped their bags in Eric’s hallway, and made automatically for the kitchen, fingers still linked.

“Do you --” Eric started, Dele looked at him expectantly. “I dunno, want a drink?”

Dele gently crowded Eric against the kitchen counter, and caught his other hand, holding him in place. 

“Not really,” he said, dropping his gaze to Eric’s mouth. “Are you,” he said quietly, moving in closer. Eric felt frozen. “Are you making this happen?” Dele asked, “whatever this is.” He looked up.

Eric dropped his hands from Dele’s, and felt his heart drop, down down down. He pushed Dele away from him. “No,” he whispered, barely audible and didn’t look back when Dele called his name.

Dele gave him 45 seconds before he followed him into the front room, looking sheepishly at him from the doorway.

“Look don’t sulk,” he said defensively, “because it’s.” He picked at a loose piece of wood on the door frame. “Look, I don’t care if it is your magic or whatever. But. I wanted to check. Because I want it to be real. It feels real to me.” 

Eric breathed deeply, walked over to Dele and kissed him. 

~

Nothing really changed after he kissed Dele, except Dele would make Eric levitate hot tea and jam toast to them as they lay in bed together, the weak morning sunlight streaming in through Eric’s curtains, Dele dropping kisses onto Eric’s bare shoulder. 

 

**May 2018**

Dele hadn’t vocalised any doubts or concerns to Eric, but when they got the official call up the relief was tangible. 

“It feels weird,” Dele admitted to Eric, once Eric finished the phone call to his parents. And then, “you look nice today.”

Eric looked down at his sweatpants and soft white t-shirt and scoffed, but felt pleased anyway. 

“Why weird?” Eric asked. 

“After France, after the qualifiers,” Dele said, “I just wasn’t sure this was going to happen.” 

Eric, unused to Dele’s moments of self doubt pulled him into a hug. “It’s different this time,” he said, believing it himself. 

It _was_ different this time. The media were kinder, the expectations were lower. The team had grown up together, had played together and they all liked each other. It felt different and it felt good. 

~

That night in Eric’s bed, Dele started to play his favourite game. Eric had thought nothing of it when he’d given the interview back in March, but he’d underestimated Dele’s glee at being described as beautiful. 

“The beautiful thing about Dele is his skill on the ball,” Dele said, poking a finger in Eric’s side. Eric ignored him and carried on reading.

“The beautiful thing about Dele is his exceptional fashion sense,” Dele said, rolling onto his back laughing at Eric’s attempt to ignore him.

“The beautiful thing about Dele is his superiority at Fortnite.” 

“The beautiful thing about Dele is his irresistible good looks.” 

Eric snorted, and shut his book. He knew where this was going.

“The beautiful thing about Dele is how great he is in bed,” 

Eric laughed, “Fucking prove it,” he said. And Dele did.

 

**July 2018**

Russia was magic. 

Russia was the kind of magic Eric believed in, the magic of foreign cities, new people. The magic of the greatest kind of football.

Russia was the magic of watching Harry Kane heading in a winner in the 92nd minute. The magic of waking up, Dele’s jaw slack and warm against his neck. The magic of six goals.

They’d all known penalties were a possibility, and they had practised and practised and practised some more. Gareth pushed them and pushed them and they knew what they had to do to break England’s curse. But that didn’t stop the fear and dread seeping into them all the moment the whistle called for the end of extra time. 

But Russia was magic. The magic of walking up to the penalty spot, a nation’s prayers hanging in the air around him, willing him on, urging him on. Eric wasn’t thinking of his own magic as his foot struck the ball. He wasn’t thinking of his own magic as he turned around to see the looks of adulation on his teammate’s faces before he believed it himself. 

He wasn’t thinking of his own magic as Dele jumped into his arms, his joy and pride radiating off him into Eric’s very core. He wasn’t thinking of his own magic, this was all real.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Panic At The Disco’s ‘Folkin Around’. Talking of which, Ryan Ross wrote the line _you are at the top of my lungs_ and I shamelessly stole that image for this fic.
> 
> All the games referenced are real, although Adam Lallana did not play when Liverpool beat Arsenal 4-0, but I had to shoehorn in the horribly indulgent joke about marrying Lallana for Ella somehow. 
> 
> My research into Eric’s family only extended to getting their names. The rest is all made up. 
> 
> [This](https://www.instagram.com/p/BSv9bn1gAe4/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1lfyr61isitdc) is the photo Eric posted on Dele’s birthday. And [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BPSTZxjAAba/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1lfa6kxggfyke) is the one Dele posted on Eric’s. 
> 
> [This](https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/eric-dier-cars-no-we-discuss-brexit-and-catalonia-at-spurs-w97mjj37v) is the interview where Eric says “the beautiful thing about Dele”. (My heart)
> 
> In what may be the greatest moment of my life, [England won a World Cup penalty shoot out](https://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/44610244) for the first time and Eric scored the winning penalty.


End file.
